“Ancestors did. This place has been used by my family to pass on the art for many centuries.”
Ai Ling wondered what he meant by “the art,” but the seer spoke as if everyone should know, so she didn’t ask. “Were those enchanted fountains at the cave entrance?” she asked instead.
Lao Pan chuckled. “No, no. My water pets are fish caught from the Sea of Zhen.”
“Fish! That speak?” She touched her cheek. The skin felt smooth now, the pain completely gone.
“Indeed. They are mentioned in The Book of Lands Beyond. But scholars often read it as myth.” Lao Pan smiled as if amused by the foolishness of it. “The Zhen fish spit venom. The poison will eat flesh to the bone, then spread if not treated.”
A cool sweat broke over her brow. She could have died, slowly eaten away by venom until her entire body was nothing but agonizing pain and corrosion. As if reading her thoughts, the seer continued. “I keep the antidote at the cave entrance. It’s the scales of the fish themselves.”
“But I didn’t see any fish,” she said, her hand still pressed against her cheek.
“You wouldn’t. They conceal themselves to their environs. It’s why I laid colored stones at the bottom of the fountains,” Lao Pan said.
Chen Yong shook his head in amazement. “I didn’t know what to do when I saw that canker growing in Ai Ling’s cheek.”
She was glad she hadn’t seen it herself. The image would have been nearly as frightening as the pain.
“Have you not heard the tale behind these creatures?” Lao Pan asked.
“I’ve read some from The Book of Lands Beyond,” Chen Yong said.
“It’s not a tale Father ever shared,” she said.
Li Rong joined them on the stone bench. They could hear Feng’s contented snorts.
“It’s a love story, as so many of them are.” Lao Pan smiled. “Emperor Yeh, from many dynasties past, collected women for his pleasure as one would collect trinkets. He had more than one thousand concubines sequestered in his inner quarters, but it wasn’t enough.”
Rui returned with warm, wet cloths for the travelers. Ai Ling was relieved to wipe her face.
Lao Pan continued with the tale, his gaze intent on the fire. “One day an official near the borders visited. He brought his wife. She was sixteen years and of mixed blood—her mother from some frigid kingdom in the north, with hair so pale it was near white and eyes the color of warm seas.”
Ai Ling sneaked a glance toward Chen Yong. He was leaning forward, relaxed, captivated by the story.
“The Emperor executed this diplomat and took his wife. He went mad over the woman. Convinced that she would be taken from him, he exiled her to a small island in the Sea of Zhen. He asked the powerful sorcerers of his court to shroud the island in mist so no one could find her. And the fish of Zhen were created, to kill any person who approached. They were given voice so they could call out a warning to the Emperor as well as report to him when he visited.
“But the Emperor was so delirious for her he neglected his duties, instead spending all his time on this hidden island. When he finally returned to the Palace, he was poisoned by his closest adviser.”
“What happened to the beautiful woman?” Li Rong asked.
“She was forgotten. Left on the small island hidden in mist to die alone. A victim of her own beauty and the Emperor’s demented love for her,” Lao Pan said.
“Ah.” Li Rong sounded disappointed.
Ai Ling felt the same. This was no enchanted love story—it was too tragic and real. She felt immediate sympathy for the woman, kept prisoner because of the Emperor’s deranged love. Why were women always seen as things to be possessed by men in these tales, never worth more than their physical beauty?
The seer clasped his hands together and stood, his golden robes shimmering before the flames. “Rest assured you can sleep in this courtyard in comfort and safety. It nears the thieving hour. I think it best we all retire for the night and talk more tomorrow.”
Rui emerged from the house with three thin pallets. The tired travelers made their beds in a semicircle near the fire, like pack animals seeking warmth. The pallet was cozier than Ai Ling expected, and although she wanted to mull over everything that had happened that day, her exhausted body did not allow it. She fell asleep even before bidding a peaceful night to her companions.
9
Ai Ling woke with a start and sat straight up. The sky was a deep blue, and white wisps drifted past the jagged peaks encircling them. The whinnying of a horse had roused her. Her two travel companions had already risen. Li Rong tended to Feng while Chen Yong sat on the stone bench, his head bent over a book.
She stretched languidly and rolled her shoulders. Rui approached and asked if she would like to wash up inside. Ai Ling followed the lanky boy into Lao Pan’s small house with its wooden porch and tall celadon-tiled roof.
Books lined the main room from floor to ceiling against two walls. A wooden ladder constructed of bamboo leaned upon one, allowing access to books out of reach. Jars and boxes filled the third wall’s shelves. Most jars were clear, revealing their contents, but a few were murky or opaque. The room smelled of dry herbs and the must of old books. Lao Pan sat at a large black wooden table, the planks so worn it shone. He studied a thick tome, oblivious to their entrance.
Rui guided her past a small kitchen into a rudimentary washroom at the back of the house. He pointed to the ceramic basin and the narrow back door, which led to a well if she needed more water. Ai Ling quickly washed her face and rubbed her teeth with the coarse salt provided in a gourd-shaped bowl. She rummaged for her wooden comb, looked around the cramped washroom and saw no mirror. It was too much to hope for. She ran the comb through her hair. She wondered what Lao Pan would tell her. She plaited her hair with deft fingers and walked back to the main room.
This time, Lao Pan raised his head. He smiled at her, the lines deepening in his gaunt, sun-browned face. “Ah, Ai Ling. We can do a reading with the lunar telling sticks this morning. Perhaps they can shed light on what occurred that awful night.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, feeling awkward. “Other things have happened, too. Evil things . . .”
“Tell me, girl.” He waved for Rui to pull up a stool for her.
Ai Ling sat down and folded her hands in her lap, not wanting to fidget. She described seeing the Life Seeker, how she was pulled into a lake and Chen Yong’s discovering her. She spoke in short, choppy sentences about the attempted rape by Fei Ming and the demon who tried to possess her after. Lao Pan never interjected, letting her fumble for words. Finally she told him what happened the previous night, when the monster bearing Chen Yong’s image had accosted her.
The seer stroked his beard in silence long after she’d finished her tale. Would he believe her? Pronounce her mad and a half-wit? Finally he stood and pulled a black leatherbound volume from the shelf. “I’ve read of similar demons in The Book of the Dead. But never before have I met an individual who has encountered so many and in so short a time.”
He tapped the front of the book with long fingers. Ai Ling hesitated before speaking again. “I’ve seen that book in my father’s study. I thought they were made-up tales to scare children.”
Lao Pan pulled back, tense. “You’ve read this?”
She looked down. It was like being caught by her own father.
“It’s not light reading . . . nor for the impressionable, young, or weak-minded.” He rapped the leather cover hard, as if for emphasis. “Rui is never allowed to open this book unless in my presence. It’s not to be read without guidance, girl.”
Ai Ling stared at her clasped hands, feeling guilt mingle with irritation. Father had warned her, and that was exactly why she had looked. “It’s just a book.” She raised her chin and met the seer’s cutting gaze. “And I am not weak-minded.”